by Rachel Lee
“Probably in one of those damn random files I haven’t gotten to yet. If Allan saved them.” Then he shook his head. “I have to keep reminding myself that Allan wanted me to find something.”
“Maybe he hid it too well.”
Trace snorted. “He may have. Some idea of what I’m looking for would be a great help.”
“You didn’t see him before he died?”
“I didn’t get here for Brigid’s funeral. I was on a mission. Then I was in the hospital and rehabilitation, under medical control until they decided I’d recovered enough to be turned loose. By then I only had a month with him before...” He shook his head as they pulled into the driveway.
She mulled that over as they carried the groceries inside. Only a month with Allan before he died and no secrets shared.
At times she faced the sacrifices demanded by her career, but she preferred not to think about them. It did her no good to focus on selfish desires.
Putting the groceries away, which had originally seemed like a distraction, now felt like another delay. They had to find something so they could really get started on their search.
She took an apple back to the office with her. Trace followed with a banana. There was a chance they had missed something.
Because if Allan had become aware of a problem, it must have happened before Brigid died. Before he’d written that telltale Forget about it.
She and Trace exchanged looks before they dived back in. In Trace’s eyes she saw a steel she felt within herself. He’d spend years on this if he had to. She didn’t have that much time. It didn’t help that English was more of a second language to her, despite her mother, despite English being spoken by so many the world over. It remained a second language.
Trace spoke. “It occurs to me, dunce that I am, that when I was here, Allan may not have shared the secret because he didn’t want to put me in danger.”
Hillary drew a breath. “I would believe it.”
Then she reached for a letter and slipped it out of the envelope for a second reading. She hoped she would find something she had missed.
An hour later she felt a small bubble of excitement. “Trace?”
“Hmm?”
“She writes of there being too many American weapons in the hands of insurgents. Too many is underlined.”
He swiveled his chair and leaned toward her. “Show me.”
He scanned Brigid’s writing. Then he looked at Hillary. “You’re right. It has something to do with weapons.”
“That could well be dangerous information.”
“Depends on why she said it. But the way she underlined...” His voice trailed off. Then he said, “I think we may have found a clue.”
* * *
TRACE WAS AWARE that there was a black market in weapons. A lot of money could be made on a single M4 carbine and some ammo. Or either model M203 grenade launchers, again, if the grenades could be sold with them. The M4 was particularly versatile, as it could be mounted on the grenade launchers for added firepower.
“Hell!” He knew it happened, but rarely did anyone get caught diverting the weapons. However, if Brigid had obtained specific information about a person or organization, she might have become expendable.
Another look at Hillary told him she shared his thoughts. Trace felt sickened. Bad enough to redirect arms for money, but worse to consider a woman disposable if she learned about it.
This is what had worried Allan. No question.
He stood up. “Time for a run.”
He didn’t ask, and Hillary simply stood up.
Run it off, man. Run it off.
* * *
THEY PUSHED HARD on their way up the mountainside and they went farther this time, following the ATV tracks over the ridge. A bit of snow had settled up there overnight, a light dusting like confectioners’ sugar.
“Winter’s close,” he remarked.
“Too close.”
He wondered what she had meant by that. Her words hadn’t sounded casual, but instead freighted with meaning.
They turned to run back down, but this time followed a slower pace, one that allowed them to talk as they ran.
“She had to have found out more,” Trace said.
“I feel the same. Now we need to find out what it was. Someone must have been afraid of her.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe just a dyed-in-the-wool psychopath who shoved any obstacle aside without remorse.
It didn’t matter what kind of enemy Brigid and Allan had faced. Trace was determined to put an end to whoever they were.
* * *
THE STEADY HAMMER of their feet relaxed them physically, but Hillary felt no easing of the stress that had grown in her after finding those words in Brigid’s letter. Nothing more than that, but a strong hint. Now she was truly eager to get back to work.
She suspected Trace felt the same. Her desire to find the person or persons who might be involved in this not only brought out the hunter in her. It brought out the soldier who would never give up, never surrender.
When they got back to the house, they ransacked the refrigerator and cupboards for something quick to eat while they worked. Another pot of coffee brewed.
“Later,” Trace said, “I want to make some of those brownies I bought. I don’t know about you, but chocolate is practically a medicine.”
Trace had bought some thinly sliced ham that morning, and they built thick sandwiches with ham and Jarlsberg cheese.
“This is a Norwegian cheese,” she remarked.
“Better in Norway, I bet.”
She gave him only the attempt of a smile she wasn’t feeling. “Depends on what you’re used to.”
“Very generous of you.”
Plates and cups in hand, they headed back to the office.
Neither of them could have stopped now unless dragged away by wild horses.
They began their search again, looking for some further indication of what had happened. A name. A description of what she had seen. Somehow Allan had known.
But when you were in a combat zone, you couldn’t bring your personal cell phone or computer. Everything went through protected military equipment. No truly private email or phone call or Skype.
Hence the great caution the two had displayed.
* * *
A COUPLE OF hours later, they took a break. Muscles had knotted bent over keyboards and letters, exacerbated by the pressure of finding an answer.
They sat in the kitchen over beers talking in spurts, mostly generalities. After a bit, they grew serious again.
“This whole thing doesn’t make sense,” Trace remarked. “One person couldn’t have enough evidence to threaten any corporation. God, they’ve got enough lawyers to tie up the matter in court for years. What could Brigid have discovered that would be enough to threaten them, anyway?”
“It had to have been something important,” Hillary agreed. The cold beer bottle sweat, making her fingertips wet. “It’s a long way to go to come this far to kill Allan.”
“Exactly. Silencing Brigid might make perverse sense, given she was probably an eyewitness, but Allan? I doubt much in her letters would constitute any kind of real evidence. Hearsay, probably.”
“He had told her to forget it. He wasn’t inclined to pursue the matter.”
“But who would know that? If he decided her death was a direct result of her knowledge, then he might have been pursuing the matter on his own.”
She nodded. “This problem is growing bigger. If we are right, what can we do about it?”
His gaze grew steely again. “I need to know for me. Even if I can’t do damn all about it.”
Hillary understood, but she also understood that the clue had drawn him in deeper. He wasn’t stopping. He wanted much more than knowing.
She tapped her bottle with her fing
ertips, considering the entire situation from another perspective.
Then she spoke, a chill trickling down her spine. “We haven’t considered the army itself.”
“How so?” He stared at her.
“If someone up her chain of command was involved, he’d have a lot more to lose than a corporation would.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah. And some officer or NCO would have a much longer reach. A lot of friends here and abroad. Hell.”
“It could be like tumbling dominoes, revealing people higher in the command.”
“And with each step upward, the danger would grow.” Trace swore again.
* * *
THE HOURS HAD bled together. Neither of them thought of the clock, or the time difference that had affected Hillary at first. Their awareness of time was only that they wouldn’t run at night. Either of them could be injured by a stumble or fall, Trace’s knees especially.
But because the hours had flowed together, it was no surprise when Trace suddenly announced, “It’s time to cook something. My banana has long since vanished.”
In response, Hillary’s stomach growled, making them both laugh.
First they spent some time in the living room working out kinks. Stretching, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, twists...everything to loosen up and quiet muscles that needed to work.
Trace enjoyed having someone alongside him as they did calisthenics. Even more, he enjoyed the view of Hillary in a T-shirt and exercise shorts. Such long, perfectly shaped, athletic legs. A guy would like to have those legs wrapped around him.
When they got to jumping jacks, they faced each other with an added benefit. Hillary had enough breasts to bounce a little. He figured she wouldn’t like his repeated glances at all, but she was sexy.
But he thought she looked faintly amused, as if she knew.
A couple of times he suspected she might be regarding him the same way, but he couldn’t be sure.
They traded on quick showers and a change into warmer clothes before returning to the kitchen, where beer sounded better to them both than another pot of coffee.
Hillary studied him, looking less impassive than usual. “That scar on your cheek? Do you mind telling me?”
He shrugged. “A knife.”
She didn’t ask how, which was fine by him. Thinking about the war wasn’t going to give either of them the break they needed.
“Dinner,” she said, changing the topic. “Any preferences? You helped put it all away, so you can’t claim ignorance.”
He smiled. “No excuses. Well, I was eyeing that steak. I can’t cook it on the grill in this weather, but I do remember how to cook a steak in a frying pan. What else?”
She considered. “Vegetables. And perhaps those frozen fried potatoes?”
“Oh yeah. And maybe I’ll make some of those dang brownies.” He wiggled his brows at her. “I’m pretty sure I can follow the directions on the box.”
“I think you would be very good at following directions.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that.”
She laughed. “You would.”
She had flirted with him. Unmistakably. He liked it, but it ratcheted his desire for her to a whole new level. Looking at her now, he wondered if her reserve was cracking.
Not that he’d been opening up very much. He’d been taking his private trips down memory lane, but he hadn’t shared them. Keeping an emotional distance. Why should he expect anything else from her?
The war. It hovered over everything. The endless war that was steadily becoming the modern version of the Hundred Years’ War.
He got out the thick steak, nicely marbled. Hillary pulled out the frozen veggies and fries. Together they calculated cooking times.
“As best we can,” Hillary laughed. “Two rusty cooks. What do you think we’ll make of this?”
“If I ruin that steak, I’ll never forgive myself.” He flashed a grin, surprised that it was coming so easily. Some of the somberness and anger had faded, at least for now.
“You brighten this place up,” he said as he stabbed the steak repeatedly with a knife and spread butter all over it.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“My dad always made them this way. Good browning and some buttery flavor throughout.”
She poured vegetables into a glass bowl. “French fries in the oven first, I think.” She pointed at the package. “I can follow directions as well.”
Again. Damn, his groin was beginning to feel heavy with hunger. He forced his attention back to the steak.
“What did you mean, I’m brightening this place?” she asked.
“This house. It’s so full of memories of Allan and Brigid that at first I could barely stand to be in here. Now, well, you’re changing that. This house was never intended to be a mausoleum.”
Her voice softened. “I think it was intended to be a haven for wounded hearts.”
“And a happy one. They made the most out of every moment they were together. Made the most of our friendship, too.” Forgetting the steak for a moment, he stared into space, remembering all the laughter, all the joy. When those two had been here, they’d shed everything that might have haunted them.
“Haven,” he said, returning his attention to finding a frying pan while Hillary spread the fries on a baking sheet and popped them into the oven. “That’s a good word for it, Hillary. A truly good word. It was a healing place.”
“Maybe that was the reason they wanted you to have this house.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way. Instead he’d seen it as a dark place full of grief. As a place haunted by people he had loved who were now gone. A repository of good memories that could only bring pain.
“Maybe so. I sure couldn’t imagine why they wanted to give it to me.”
“Perhaps because they weren’t the only ones who were happy here.” Having closed the oven and set a timer, she said, “Flip in eight minutes. I can manage that.”
That drew a laugh from him. “Like there’s very much you can’t manage. Should we go out back and build a fire with twigs?”
She joined his laughter. “That’s easy.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. I’ll have to think of something more difficult.”
Later, as he was frying the steak, she asked, “Do you have family here?”
“None. Mom died giving birth to me. My dad raised me, then skipped out right after I left for the Army. I have no idea where he is.”
She fell briefly silent. “That’s sad. Maybe he felt he couldn’t risk losing you, too.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him that way, but I could be wrong. He was always taciturn and strict. No-nonsense. I turned to my friends. He steadily turned away.” He paused. “Sometimes I wondered if he blamed me. If he looked at me and got angry or something.”
She didn’t answer. What answer could there be? he wondered. No one could know.
But then she offered, “It’s awful you felt that way.”
He shrugged. “It was what it was. A fact of life. I didn’t concentrate on it—I just built my own life. What about you?”
“What about me?” The timer dinged, and she pulled the fries out, beginning to turn them over.
“Your mom, your dad. That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“It wasn’t especially difficult. I didn’t have to wonder if they both loved me.”
“And your dad?”
She smiled as she placed the fries back in the oven. “My best friend. We talk about everything.” Her smile grew softer. “I have so many images of him, sometimes stern, but mostly with his eyes crinkled in a smile for me.”
“It would be easy to smile at you.”
She glanced at him, seeming to hold her breath, but only for a second. “That is a very nice thing to say.”
�
��It’s just true. How did you grow up?”
“When my father was home, we did nearly everything together. Long ski trips in the mountains, some camping, some traveling, sometimes just sitting by the fire and talking with friends. Many good times.”
He had never known that himself, but the image she painted was warm and inviting. He could almost picture it.
He pulled the steak out of the frying pan. “We’re doing pretty good,” he remarked as the microwave beeped that the vegetables were done. A minute later, the oven timer went off.
She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “Just the way a military operation should go.”
“But never does.”
“Never,” she agreed.
Trace had grown more comfortable with the dishes in the cupboard, so he pulled them out and set the table for them. Icy bottles of beer accompanied the settings, and then the food.
“Damn, it smells good,” he said.
They sat facing each other. Trace had cut the steak in half as best he could and put a portion on her plate. After that it was every man or woman for him or herself.
“I forgot to make those brownies,” he said.
“Thus failing to prove you can follow directions.”
Damn, she made him laugh. At long last when he sensed Brigid and Allan in this house, he felt as if they were smiling at him.
Chapter Ten
Stan Witherspoon’s fears continued to grow. The longer that blonde woman stayed in town, the more worried he became. A soldier. One who had been Brigid’s friend.
On the one hand, he was glad of this town’s busy grapevine. On the other, he worried that it might expose him in some way.
There was no way to shut the gossip down. None. He just had to continue trying to remain unremarkable.
Although unremarkable was his general description. He blended better than a potted plant.
Sometimes he liked his inherent invisibility. Sometimes he hated it. He sure hadn’t been invisible those two times Brigid Mannerly had spied him at his avocation. He preferred that term, avocation, to the real one: arms merchant.